The Caledonian Gambit: A Novel

PROLOGUE

Elijah Brody was being attacked by butterflies.

To be fair, they were only targeting his stomach, but they were angry and fluttering around in a malevolent way that he wouldn’t previously have associated with butterflies.

His digestion gurgled, and he patted at his midsection through the thick synthetic fibers of his flight suit. Pre-mission jitters. Perfectly normal. How would you know? he chided himself. You’ve never been on a real one before.

"Venture is in system." The calm, collected tones of the ISC Venture’s flight controller filtered through his headset. Green Squadron, you are clear to launch. There was a slight pause and when the woman continued, Eli could tell she was smiling. Good hunting.

Eli triggered the explosive bolts connecting his fighter to the Venture. A sound like muted firecrackers reverberated through the hull, and the fighter began to drift slowly out of the bay.

Eight … nine … ten. Safely clear of the Venture, Eli punched the ignition.

The whole ship shook as the engine roared to life. He grinned, and the breath that escaped his lungs felt like it had been stored up for hours—days, even. The engagement seemed a foregone conclusion: in his mind, he was already back aboard the Venture, the mission accomplished and Green Squadron toasting each other with their ration of the victory champagne.

All around him, Eli saw the flares from his squadronmates’ engines. Green dots representing their fighters sprinkled across his heads-up display. He found the blip marked as Green Six and increased throttle to form up on Larabie’s wing, then toggled to his wingman channel.

All right, Chris?

Yeah. You want to see something incredible, Brody? Take a look at your six.

Eli raised an eyebrow. Flipping his main display to the rear camera feed, he saw the immense bulk of the Venture stretch away behind him. But as it drifted slightly to port, the gate came into view and he gave a low whistle.

Damn, said Larabie quietly. I never get tired of that view.

Hanging in space like a giant baleful eye, the hexagonal metal structure stretched a mile across. In its gaping maw spun a blue whirlpool, almost hypnotic in its undulations: the wormhole from which the Venture had recently emerged.

Hell of a thing, said Larabie, a tinge of awe still in his voice. You know they’re self-sustaining, right? We did a case study on them back when I was in engineering school.

"Huh. I didn’t think they had inter-system spaceflight that long ago."

"Hilarious. Just let me know when you come up with an idea half as brilliant as using the wormhole’s own gravimetric energy as a power source."

That actually works? Eli wished he could rub his temples through his helmet. Sounds like a goddamn Moebius strip.

Larabie snorted. Don’t overtax your poor brain, Brody. Good news is it works in our favor—there’s so much juice in those suckers that once they switch them on, they’re pretty much impossible to turn off again.

Good, said Eli, because I slammed a door on my finger once and it’s not an experience I’d like to have reproduced on a galactic scale.

"Green Squadron, this is Venture control. The transmission crackled with static. Be advised we have inbound bogeys. LRS read two squadrons coming in fast—profile suggests heavy bombers and interceptors." Red blips appeared on Eli’s HUD as the Venture’s long-range sensors fed in locations for the enemy ships.

That was fast, muttered someone over the squadron-wide comm channel.

Two full squadrons sure doesn’t seem like the usual welcoming committee. Maggie O’Hara was Green Three and the squadron’s intel expert. And they shouldn’t have been able to ID us until we were in system.

They’ve got their own intel sources, Larabie pointed out.

Let’s just hope they aren’t better than ours, quipped Green Five, Jun Kwok.

Green Squadron, shape it up, said Captain Lila Randall, the squadron leader. Tag your targets and prepare to engage. We need to secure the gate area before the rest of the fleet comes through the wormhole. Six, Seven, you’re on point.

Roger that, said Larabie. Setting an intercept course.

Copy, said Eli, turning the ship’s nose toward the foremost red blips on his display. The whine of the engines pitched up, inertia pushing him back against his seat. He toggled back to his wingman channel.

These guys do seem awfully prepared.

Yeah, said Larabie, but all the preparation in the world isn’t going to give these poor bastards enough of a leg up when the rest of the fleet comes through the gate. He paused, and Eli could picture his wingman shaking his shaggy head. "They’re outnumbered and outgunned, and if they have ID’d us, then they know it. I’m not sure why they haven’t just surrendered."

Because nobody likes to just roll over and die.

The entire Fifth Fleet for one relatively isolated world. Eli increased the magnification of his HUD until he could see the globe of mottled blue, green, and white. Seems like overkill to me.

The Imperium’s making a point, kid. Sabaea was in talks to join the Commonwealth, and the Illyrican Empire’s not about to let that slide.

No, they’re sure as hell not. Eli shifted uncomfortably, feeling the seat squeak underneath him. His homeworld, Caledonia, had been a free planet before the Imperium had invaded. Is that really the only option?

They don’t exactly need our approv—

A warning tone blared, and the ship’s computer overrode Eli’s magnification to show that one of the inbound enemy fighters, now highlighted in a red box, was trying to acquire a missile lock.

Intercept! he yelled. He wrestled with the flight stick, trying to slip the lock while lining up his own shot.

The reticle on his display flickered green and Eli squeezed the trigger, sending magnetically-propelled slugs peppering out of the fighter’s nose-mounted tubes. The tracer rounds phosphoresced yellow-green against the black of space, but his own inertia sent them arcing to port. He twitched the stick back to starboard, finger still on the trigger.

The enemy fighter was close enough now that it was visible with the naked eye, juking left and right in an attempt to avoid fire and keep its lock. Two of Eli’s rounds clipped its engines; fuel leaked into space, floating in droplets. A second burst hit the engines, and Eli saw one of the tracer rounds pierce the fuel tank.

That was all it took. The ship fireballed, the explosion spectacularly silent against the dark backdrop.

Lead, this is Six, said Larabie. Chalk up a kill for Seven.

Virgin no more, whooped Kwok. That means the beer’s on you, right?

Eli winced, the afterimage of the explosion still dazzling his vision. First kill. He should be proud, not feel like he’d just done a belly-flop from thirty thousand feet. This is what you trained for, Brody.

Simmer down, said Captain Randall. Good work, Seven, but there’s plenty more to go around. Green Squadron, you are free to engage.

The squadron broke as it closed with the enemy ships, and suddenly the whole area was a mess of dots on Eli’s display. In a blur, he found himself going head-to-head with a second fighter; he swung around, trying to get on its tail. But the other pilot was good: they cut their throttle to let Eli overshoot them, and his guns caught only empty space. Yanking on the stick, Eli flipped his ship over, putting the other ship effectively upside down—but still square in his sights. Gotcha.

Lead, Six. Larabie’s measured tones broke Eli’s concentration. He swore as his shot went wide of the mark.

This is Lead, said Captain Randall over the comms. Go, Six.

Something odd: Those capital ships in Sabaea’s defensive screen aren’t engaging.

They’re just holding them in reserve, Rafi Kantor, the squad’s second in command, broke in. No point exposing them to fire until there’s something bigger than fighters for them to target.

Maybe, said Larabie. But there’s something … I don’t know. Not right.

Getting paranoid, Six? needled Kwok.

Knock it off, Kwok, said O’Hara.

Randall’s voice cut through the chatter. Six, keep an eye on the cap ships, but they’re not high priority. We’ll worry about them after we take care of the fighters. Speaking of which.

The enemy squadron had regrouped and was coming around for a second pass. Eli brought his fighter up on Larabie’s port wing and tagged his target on the shared display. One by one, the red blips turned gray as the rest of the squadron did the same.

Here we go, said Randall. Break on my mark.

Anticipating Randall’s order, Eli’s hand gripped the throttle.

"All ships, this is Venture control. Panic colored the normally even-keeled tones of the flight controller. Something’s happening at the gate. Repeat, there appears to be activity at the gat—"

A bright white flash blinded Eli, and the transmission from the Venture dissolved into a screeching mess. The high-pitched noise dug into Eli’s sinuses and he scrambled to dial down the volume on his headset. Bits of incoherent babble from the rest of the squadron punched through the interference.

… god …

The gate …

… squadron … beam … channel …

… on your six …

A giant hand suddenly picked up Eli’s ship and shook it like a child’s toy, sending it careening end-over-end. Alarms of three or four different flavors blared in his ears, and Eli had to squeeze his eyes tightly shut as the dizzying streaks of stars through his canopy threatened to evict the butterflies and everything else in his stomach. Don’t throw up in your helmet, don’t throw up in your helmet … His teeth rattled so hard he thought he might have swallowed a couple. Fighting against the pressure that wanted to keep him pinned against his seat, he reached out with a jittery hand and cut the throttle.

Then it was over and his ship began to drift, propelled only by its own momentum. He let one eye slide open, then the other.

The heads-up display flickered and wavered in front of him; he banged his hand against his helmet but only succeeded in making his head ache further. With a growl, he set the computer to reboot, which also took the cameras and thruster control offline. He craned his neck to try and peer out the canopy, but flightsuits weren’t exactly built for mobility. We missed something. Did a bomber get through to the Venture?

The computer whirred back online. Eli stomped on the attitude thruster controls and yanked hard on the stick, pointing the ship’s nose back toward the Venture. It left his back exposed to any oncoming fighters, but the flagship was a higher priority right now. Whatever hit it must have been big …

Holy shit.

The Venture was still there, but the rear half of the ship was drifting away from the front half, as though the same hand that had flung Eli’s fighter had simply snapped the mile-long carrier in half like a dead branch. Plumes of gas vented into space and sparks of electricity played about jagged edges.

But that wasn’t what took Eli’s breath away.

The gate was gone.

Seven, this is Six on tightbeam. You copy? Larabie’s voice, loud and clear, cut through the static.

Eli switched his comms over. What the hell happened?

"They blew the gate, Eli. They blew the fucking gate. The usually unflappable Larabie sounded throaty with shock. They must have rigged it to go after we came through. I—I—that’s insane."

Eli swallowed, a lump rising in his own throat as he watched the faint sparkle of gate debris spiraling away like a miniature galaxy.

The wormhole just collapsed, said Larabie, still in disbelief. "The gravity differential, it—I saw it tear the Venture in half. I’ve never seen anything … His voice caught. Oh, god. The fleet."

The rest of the fleet had been waiting in the wormhole for the Venture’s all-clear. Standard operating procedure.

Larabie was almost inaudible, though Eli couldn’t tell whether it was the transmission or the man himself. They’re trapped in the wormhole. All of them.

All those people—friends, classmates, thousands Eli had never even met. Trapped. In the wormhole.

Eli swallowed again. They can just go back, right? Back to the Badr sector, where they went in?

No, they can’t. You can’t keep just one end of a wormhole stable. It’s like a rubber band: let go and it snaps.

What if … what if we rebuild the gate?

There was a short, bitter laugh from Larabie. It’d take years. Best-case scenario, they’ve been spat out halfway across the galaxy. Worst … He trailed off. Either way, they’re gone, Eli.

A sudden squawk came over the comm channels, and an unfamiliar voice rang in Eli’s ears.

Illyrican ships, this is Admiral Vogel of the Sabaean Planetary Defense Forces. You are outnumbered and outgunned. Kill your engines, power down your weapons, and we’ll accept your surrender.

Outnumbered and outgunned. Eli choked back a hysterical laugh. That was our line.

Repeat, this is Admiral Vogel of the Sabaean Planetary—

"Fuck you," cut in Kwok’s voice.

Eli watched in horror as the pilot matched actions to words, throttling to maximum and careening at the enemy fighters, guns blazing away. Her screams echoed down the comm channel.

You motherfucking murde—

A missile streaked out from under one of the enemy bombers, hitting Kwok’s ship head on. Eli’s heart leapt into his throat as the fighter became a ball of expanding, briefly burning fragments.

No! He wasn’t sure who yelled—it could have been him, for all he knew—but it was the last thing he heard before the hiss of broad-spectrum jamming descended.

Green Squadron scattered, picking up the nearest enemy ships. Eli threw his own throttle wide open and rocketed toward a group of fighters.

He saw the same bomber launch another missile in his direction, but he spun toward the fragments of Kwok’s ship, putting the cloud of remains between himself and the projectile. The missile veered off, detonating harmlessly in the debris field.

Coming around at the enemy squadron, he loosed two of his own missiles, sending them directly into the heart of the formation.

One shot through the gaps between the fighters; the other hit dead on, turning one ship into a hail of shrapnel that shredded through two of the others. Eli punched through what was left of the formation, guns clearing the way by eliminating yet another fighter. Before fully comprehending what he was doing, he found himself barreling toward the capital ships that still hung in the distance like an oncoming storm.

Let’s see how you like it when the fight’s brought to you, you smug bastards.

Eli glanced at the weapon status on his heads-up; the missile-ready indicator burned a steady green. From this far away, the big cruisers would have plenty of time to shoot down anything he fired; his only chance was to get as close as possible before launching. He pointed his nose at the nearest capital ship.

The bigger ships clearly hadn’t expected to engage with fighters this soon—even just one of them. That surprise gave Eli the precious few seconds he needed to close the gap.

An electronic warning shriek ripped at his eardrums as the cruiser let loose a barrage in his direction, trying to get a bead on his ship. Smoothly rolling his fighter to starboard, Eli arced away from the fire, then wove back toward the cruiser. Just another few seconds and he’d be inside the perimeter of its defensive fire. His thumb hovered above the missile launch button.

Abruptly, the communications jamming disappeared.

"Illyrican fighter, this is the Sabaean cruiser Dogs of War. Cut your engines now or we will fire for effect."

That first salvo hadn’t been a near miss; it had been a warning shot. In Eli’s stomach, the butterflies returned with reinforcements, but he batted them away as he once again saw Kwok’s ship disintegrating. His jaw clenched.

Their mistake. They should have taken him out when they had the chance—now he was too close. His targeting reticle was still locked on the cruiser’s bridge as the enormous ship filled his canopy; he fancied he even caught sight of one or two crewmembers at viewports, pointing at him, mouths agape.

His finger lingered above the missile trigger. He could do it—he could decapitate the cruiser.

Steeling himself, he toggled his comm and took a deep breath. For all he knew, these could be his last words. Better make them good ones.

You can all go to hell, you sons of—

CHAPTER ONE

The toilet gleamed. It sparkled. It shined. In fact, the man known as Kyle Rankin thought as he rocked back on his heels, he would go so far as to say that no other toilet in the known universe had ever been quite so clean as the one that sat before him now.

You know, when my sixth-grade teacher told me to shape up or my future would be in the toilet, I’m not sure even she thought it’d be literally.

But it definitely looked as good as the day it was installed. He supposed he could take pride in that if he ever ran into Ms. Fitzhugh.

He maneuvered himself up from the crouch, sucking a breath in through his teeth as his knees protested. Eight-hour cleaning shifts, it turned out, were murder on the joints. He felt like he had the knees of a seventy-two-year-old—which meant somewhere out there was a seventy-two-year-old with the knees of a twenty-seven-year-old. Some day he’d find that guy and have a few words.

The bathroom door creaked—he grimaced and reminded himself to lubricate the hinges—and a voice echoed off the tiles.

Rankin? You in here?

Oh, good. Farrell. This day just keeps getting better. Maybe if I don’t say anything he’ll—

I can’t tell you how happy I am never to have to do latrine duty again. A Cheshire-cat grin was plastered across the blond man’s face as he leaned against the sink counter. His crisp, immaculately pressed uniform was code-perfect, except for the unfastened collar at the top, open just far enough to show a hint of chest.

Kyle jammed his mop into the auto-wringer and watched with satisfaction as it squeezed out every last drop of water. He probably shouldn’t be picturing Farrell’s head while doing that, but hey, it was a free planet.

What do you want, Farrell? Or did you come here just to enjoy my misery?

Farrell laughed, but it was a little too forced, like someone had once told him they liked his laugh and he’d spent the last ten years trying to achieve that perfect guffaw again. No, my son, I’m not here for the company—we have business to conduct.

Kyle’s jaw clenched. The bloody gate.

The first ship is due through the gate in a few minutes. It wouldn’t do for us to be lurking in the johnny when we should be getting ready to pay out. We need to be down in the Ops Center with everybody else.

Suddenly, cleaning the rest of the toilets didn’t seem like such a bad idea. You handle it, Kyle said, shaking his head. You don’t need me there.

Oh, come now, said Farrell, waving a hand expansively, "we’re partners. And aren’t you the least bit curious?"

Because curiosity never got anybody killed. Honestly? No. What’s it matter to me? I’m not going anywhere long as there are toilets to be scrubbed.

"It’s been five years, Rankin. Wide-eyed, Farrell shook his head. Jesus. Five years of our lives stuck in this ice-hell. All because some idiots thought it was a good idea to blow up our wormhole gate."

Acid roiled in Kyle’s stomach. "The planet was being invaded at the time," he pointed out.

Farrell snorted. We could have taken the Illyricans even without destroying the gate.

"Well if you’d been up there, sure."

Hey, not my fault I was still in the academy. I could have flown rings around any of those Illyrican flight jockeys.

Or, more likely, you’d be an expanding pile of space dust right about now. If the entire Illyrican fleet had made it through the gate, they would have outnumbered the paltry Sabaean Defense Forces about five to one.

I tell you, I am not going to be sorry to see the ass end of this place, Farrell said, talking right over Kyle’s thoughts. "I am done with the fucking tundra. I mean, on a nice day the winds are gusting up to 50 kilometers per hour. You have any idea what kind of nightmare it is to land a jump jet in that kind of shitstorm?"

Kyle’s stomach did a sympathetic barrel roll. I’d rather not think about it.

Farrell, though, was on a different sort of roll. They ought to have put this goddamn place in mothballs a long time ago.

Come on, you know the brass keeps Davidson Base around so they have somewhere to dump the people they’re pissed at.

Farrell’s smug expression faltered, but it wasn’t enough to permanently dent his enthusiasm. "Maybe for Antony, but not me. The minute the gate is open, I’m out of here. They’re going to need trained pilots by the boatload—the military, transport lines, private contractors; they’ll be fighting it out over someone with my qualifications."

Kyle did his best to turn a snort into a cough, but Farrell was too wrapped up in his rich fantasy life to even notice.

It’s too bad you can’t come with me, Farrell continued, laying a comradely arm around Kyle’s shoulder. We’re a good team. Think of all the trouble we could get into out there. He waved a hand slowly in front of them at a vista only he could see. Of course, I’d need a reason to bring you along. His face lit up suddenly. You could be my butler! People still have those, right?

If I go to Ops with you, will you leave me out of your grandiose plans?

Absolutely, said Farrell, drawing an x across the place where science had not proven he had a heart. First drink’s on me.

Great. Kyle leaned his mop against the stall door with only slightly less reticence than most soldiers leaving their sweethearts to go off to war.

Five minutes later, after wending their way through the base’s labyrinth of mostly similar-looking corridors, Farrell pushed open the door to the Operations Center. A raucous cheer of his name greeted him, and he waved and smiled like he was on camera, acknowledging his adoring public with a slight bow.

No such reception met Kyle. Few would recognize him without a mop in his hand and, even then, most wouldn’t be able to come up with his name without consulting the tag on his chest.

Told you it was a party, said Farrell, slapping Kyle on the back. Even Antony’s still up. He nodded at a glass-walled cubicle overlooking the Ops Center’s concentric rings.

Tall and spare, with close-cropped silver hair, Colonel Indira Antony cut an imposing figure, even in her everyday uniform. The colonel’s eyes met Kyle’s, and she tilted her head in a casual nod.

Kyle returned the nod, ignoring a searching glance from Farrell.

You never did tell me how you managed to get so buddy-buddy with the Old Wolf, Farrell said, nudging him with an elbow.

Kyle’s shrug was noncommittal. Even a colonel’s wastebasket doesn’t empty itself.

Despite the late hour, the base’s personnel were surprisingly cheery—even those who were nominally on the graveyard shift. Kyle suspected that the bottles of booze being freely passed around were to thank for that. Normally, anyone on duty would have been on their way to the brig before they could take a single sip. But given the celebratory mood, Antony seemed to be turning a blind eye to the proceedings. Kyle thought he even spotted a tumbler on the colonel’s desk.

A drink appeared in his hand, courtesy of Farrell. The pilot grinned and clinked it with his own plastic cup. To our return to the galaxy, he said. To clear skies and new horizons. And, he added, under his breath, last but not least: to getting the hell out of here.

Some of us, anyway. Kyle raised his glass. Cheers.

The Sabaeans threw a decent party, at least. But it wasn’t quite enough to make Kyle forget that they were the architects of their current predicament. Confronted by an overwhelming invasion force, they’d taken the one tack that their enemy hadn’t expected—because it was absolutely, brain-bendingly, antifreeze-drinking crazy: the Sabaeans had blown up their own wormhole gate, and with it their only connection to the rest of the galaxy.

Still in transit through the wormhole, the majority of the Illyrican fleet—dozens of ships, thousands of people—had vanished in an instant. They’d been carved right out of the fabric of the universe, their last remaining echo a hollow pit in Kyle’s stomach.

Raucous laughter echoed from one corner of the room. Farrell had found a refill and was now leaning on a nearby console, leering down at one of the recent arrivals—a communications lieutenant by the name of Polakov. In the two weeks she’d been here, Farrell had dedicated himself to getting into her uniform, but her expression suggested he’d have better luck going topside, building a snowman, and propositioning it instead.

Someone jostled Kyle, splashing his shirt with alcohol. He glanced over his shoulder, but the offending party was already gone. Sighing, he cast around for something to dry his shirt, but somebody had evidently forgotten to lay out any napkins. Typical military efficiency.

His gaze caught upon Antony, leaning over the balcony railing in front of her office. The colonel was staring at the large holographic display that floated overhead, showing the solar system. A large green circle—Sabaea—stood at the center. Not far off hung a smaller blue dot: the reconstructed gate. A few green blips around the planet sketched the Sabaean fleet, loosely arrayed in a defensive formation. The last time something had come through the gate, it had been an invasion fleet. The Sabaean Defense Forces weren’t taking any chances. Let’s hope they have a different strategy this time.

Antony’s eyes caught Kyle’s; smiling slightly, she tilted her head in his direction. Kyle looked around, but none of the other partygoers seemed inclined to risk conversation with a lowly maintenance tech, so up the stairs he went.

Still leaning on the railing, Antony glanced over at Kyle as he reached the top, then nodded to the holographic display. So, who’s your money on, Mr. Rankin?

Shit. Kyle summoned the blandest expression he could manage. Ma’am?

The colonel fixed him with a knowing look. Your little pool with Mr. Farrell? On who’s going to be the first to come through the gate?

Kyle suppressed a grimace. He’d kind of hoped they’d flown under the radar. Odds favor a trade ship from the Bayern Corporation, he admitted. Though a surprising number of people seem pretty convinced that an Illyrican ghost fleet is going to pop out and take their revenge. He tried to summon a laugh, but it lacked conviction.

Antony snorted. Well, if they’ve figured out how to survive in a wormhole for five years, then maybe they deserve to win next time.

But nobody survives in a wormhole, Kyle thought. Despite all those wormhole survival training drills they run. It was like falling through the ice—and then having the ice freeze over you. Kyle shivered, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end.

If there’d been any other way … Antony murmured, glancing over at him.

It was Kyle’s turn to snort. "Well, until some brainiac figures out a way to travel between star systems without using a wormhole gate, I’d say it’s a pretty effective tactic." Figuring out how to prop open the naturally occurring wormholes that humanity had stumbled across had been hard enough; anything beyond that had so far proven elusive.

Antony shook her head. Doesn’t make it right.

No, it doesn’t. But it’s done. Time to move on.

They stood in silence for a moment, both watching the carousing below.

So, said Kyle, scratching a temple. I guess you’ll want me to return the personnel’s money, ma’am?

That won’t be necessary. As long as it’s all in good fun. She raised her eyebrows. "It is in good fun. Isn’t it, Mr. Rankin?"

Yes, ma’am.

Good, said Antony. I’d hate to have to confiscate Lieutenant Farrell’s cut.

Kyle grinned, some of the tension finally ebbing away, and raised his own nearly empty glass. You have a favorite, then, ma’am?

That depends on what kind of odds you’re offering.

Well, said Kyle, his face scrunching up in thought, the Illyricans—the non-ghost ones, anyways—are on the board at 9 to 2, with the Commonwealth a little bit ahead at 4 to 1. Bayern is definitely the favorite, at 2 to 1—and nobody’s really expecting the Hanif to come near the place.

Thorough. I’m impressed. You considering a new line of work as a bookie?

Beats cleaning bathrooms.

Antony ran her thumb around the glass’s rim. About that, she said, looking up at Kyle. This is going to change a lot of things. She nodded at the screen again.

Why? said Kyle. Are we finally getting that new auto-mop I’ve had my eye on?

Not exactly what I meant. Just that, with your situation being what it is—

Colonel! came a voice from the floor, as if on cue. Polakov, the communications officer, was looking up at them, one hand on her headset.

Yes, lieutenant?

Message from gate control, ma’am. Something’s coming through.

The entire room trickled into silence as their eyes swiveled to the display overhead, staring at the blue dot of the gate. Kyle’s breath caught; beside him he could hear the colonel’s doing the very same. It wasn’t hard to imagine the entire population of Sabaea holding their breath at this very moment, staring at the same image with equal feelings of hope and fear.

A yellow dot blinked into existence next to the blue one.

There were a couple of scattered cheers, but the crowd quickly went quiet again, the bigger question still unanswered.

Incoming transmission from the ship, wide spectrum, said Polakov.

On speakers, lieutenant.

A filtered voice blared through the room, caught mid-sentence. —to the Sabaean monarchy. We welcome you back to the galactic community, and hope to usher in a new age of prosperity and cooperation between our two cultures.

Get on with it, muttered Kyle.

"Repeat: this is the frigate Indefatigable, bringing greetings of the Commonwealth of Independent Systems to the Sabaean monarchy."

A murmur of surprise rippled through the room. There were more than a few people on Sabaea who believed that the Commonwealth should have come to their aid during the invasion; most, though, didn’t seem to blame them for not wanting to put themselves in harm’s way. Either way, they probably won’t get a hero’s welcome.

Four to one, was it? said Antony. Not bad, considering that five years ago the Illyrican Empire had them more or less painted into a corner.

Yeah, well, the Illyricans have one less fleet than they used to. It came out more flip then he’d intended.

Antony grimaced. It’s never wise to speak ill of the dead, Mr. Rankin. You never know when it might come back to haunt you.

Kyle swallowed. Yes, ma’am.

As you were, said Antony, waving her glass at the party. Enjoy the revelry. Eat, drink, be merry, all that.

For tomorrow we … what exactly? Drawing himself up, Kyle turned toward the stairs.

Kyle?

He glanced over his shoulder, and saw that Antony’s expression had thawed slightly. The colonel nodded down at the Ops Center. I know you don’t exactly feel like you fit in down there, but everybody’s Sabaean today.

With a nod, Kyle excused himself and returned to the party, already well underway. Somebody—Farrell again, he thought—shoved a mug of what smelled like 120-proof motor oil into his hand, and knocked their own cup against it before disappearing back into the crowd.

Kyle stared at the drink. There were some things that not even liquor could wash away, despite his best efforts.

A blonde head snapped up in the middle of the crowd. Kyle raised his eyebrows as he recognized Lieutenant Polakov, trying to flag down Antony. After a moment, she gave up, peeling off her headset and taking to the stairs, two at a time.

Kyle watched as she tapped the colonel on the shoulder. Polakov said something to her, and Antony frowned. The colonel’s eyes searched the crowd, suddenly locking onto him. Holding his gaze, Antony’s lips thinned and she jerked her head at Kyle, summoning him again toward the platform